


Ceaseless

by Rev (Ballyhoo)



Category: Baccano!
Genre: Baccano! Week 2016, Day One - Time, Fear, Fear of Death, Gen, Vague angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 04:40:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8314282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ballyhoo/pseuds/Rev
Summary: Tim despises clocks. Tick loves clocks. Luck...really would rather not think about them right now, thank you very much. Written last month in a few hasty hours for Day One (Time) for Baccano! Week on Tumblr.





	

 

**August 1933**

Tim despised clocks.

He acknowledged them as useful utilitarian tools, but did not own a alarm clock, mantle clock, wall clock nor grandfather clock - the most he tolerated was a wristwatch, which he wore only when necessary.  When he had first joined the Larvae, one of the Lamia members had thoughtfully put an alarm clock by his bedside as he slept. When Tim had awoken in the middle of the night and espied the clock, he smashed it, went back to sleep, and woke up half an hour early out of spite. 

The ticking noise, he had explained, prevented him from sleep.

He hated how whenever he looked at a clock he knew exactly what style it was, what dial it used, whether its main springs and suspension springs were in good repair. He knew a Seth Thomas from a Gilbert from an Ansonia from a Waterbury from an Ingraham from a New Haven. If given the necessary materials, he could construct a working clock from memory today if he had to. The thought revolted him.  Even now, the sound of a cuckoo or church bell made his stomach lurch.

That they reminded him of his stepfather wasn’t even the worst of it. No, what was worse was that they reminded him of his older brother. It had been nearly eight years since he’d last seen his brother. Part of him was glad for it. He hated his brother, he reminded himself. His brother had killed Tim’s guinea pig, after all. He hadn’t seen his stepfather in eight years either and he was completely fine with that; in fact, he thought he probably wouldn’t mind very much to hear that the man had died during that time.

Yes, he didn’t miss his brother at all. Not one bit. Eight years was…was…

…eight years was an awful long time to go without seeing his brother, and a small part of him was frightened that he’d never see Tick again. A whole eight years. Gone. He told himself that he wanted closure for Jimmy, that he wanted to see Tick just one more time so that he could feel justified in his feelings towards him. That was what he’d told himself every year.

He loathed himself for wondering if Tick had changed much over the past eight years.  If Tim were to pass him on the street, would he recognize him? Of course he would. They were brothers after all. Surely, definitely, he would. Eight years is not all  _that_  long after all, not really.

(If he repeated that to himself enough times, maybe he’d start to believe it).

He’d be fine if he never saw Tick again. Really, he would. Succinctly satisfied. Utterly unaffected. Completely copacetic.

(He never felt more wretched than he did with the realization that the burning in his stomach was not his hatred for his stepfather nor his resentment towards his brother, but was regret over time lost)

****

 **October 1925**  

It had been a week since Tick joined the Family.

Luck eyed their newest recruit - the young teen sat at a corner table up in the jazz hall, docilely polishing his new set of scissors that the Family had graciously given him as a welcoming present (Luck had told him to consider it as an investment in Tick’s supposed ‘value’). Tick had chosen the same table and chair every day for the past week, and Luck – despite himself – was curious.

Finally, he sidled over to the table in question. Purposefully, hands in pockets, shoes silent against the wooden floor - acting for all the world like the executive he was meant to be (still, the indulging eyes of the newer patrons and a few of the older  _associates_  did not escape him).

“Mr. Tick.” 

The teenager looked up with a smile.

“Yes, Mr. Luck?” 

“May I ask why you choose to sit here, of all places? Is it the view of the stage? The climate? You seem awfully partial to this corner, and I can’t help but wonder why.” 

Tick hummed and arched a slender arm up into the air, his scissors still in hand. They were newly polished, and gleamed for a moment under the lighting. It took Luck a moment to realize that Tick was using the scissors to point at the musty old mahogany longcase clock shoved up in the corner itself. It was perhaps a Georgian or Edwardian model – which one, Luck didn’t know. He raised an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

“I like clocks,” Tick said simply. “They remind me of Father.”

Luck fell silent, studying Tick’s face. There didn’t seem to be any wistfulness in his expression, but it seemed to Luck that a hint of loneliness had crept into the other boy’s voice. It was an emotion that Luck knew well.

“In faaaact, I’ve been looking for a little clock or pocket watch to keep with me,” Tick continued. “I like the ticking noise. It helps me fall asleep at night.”

Luck looked away, towards the stage where their regular band had just started up another song. Though he’d never admit it, it pained him somewhat whenever Tick fondly recalled his stepfather. His own memories of how the clockmaker had simpered and groveled and so easily sold his own stepson to the Mafia as a delay tactic were still pungently fresh.

“Do yooou like clocks, Mr. Luck?” 

Luck immediately thought of his own pocket watch, a silver Waltham that he’d wound just an hour ago. It was currently nestled in his breast pocket, rather than a vest or trouser pocket. Slowly, he reached in and pulled out the watch in question, considering it in his hand.

“I find them – useful.” 

Of course he did. The clock was the tool he depended upon to tell him when a debt was owed, when arrears were to be evaluated, when to eat, to sleep, to wake. And someday, he was sure, when to  _kill_.

Yes, he valued clocks for their precision. With a clock, he had been able to calculate how long it had been since the clockmaker made his promise to the very second. Had the clockmaker been a good and decent man and without debts, Luck might even have bought one of his own models.

“Hmmm. That’s niiice to hear, Mr. Luck, but do you  _like_  them?”

Luck paused, and frowned down at Tick. His first thought was  _such cheek!_ and his second was  _I really must give him more credit._

“I…don’t know.”

Perhaps, if Luck had been someone like Berga or…well, Berga, he might have brushed the question aside as pointless philosophical posturing. But Luck was unfortunate enough to have the soul of a writer, and he pondered the question seriously.

Certainly, he appreciated clocks on an aesthetic level. And from a mechanical standpoint, watching the gears click into place was fairly satisfying –

Ah. He was dancing around the salient issue.

Perhaps, if Luck had been someone like Nicola or Mike he might have shrugged the question off and said he’d never thought about it. But Luck was hopeless enough to have the mind of a poet, and he sighed and resigned himself to the fact that he’d look for symbolism in a leaky faucet if he could. That was just the way he was.

“I think I should like a clock engraved onto my tombstone,” Luck said finally. “If I am to have one.” 

Even as Luck said the words, he knew that he  _would_  have a grave marker, at the very least. He had thought when he was a child that if he were to end up drowned like their capo Gino had been when he was six, or burned to death like their associates Stefano, Abel, and Luca had when he was eight – if he were to die in such a way that his body could not be recovered, he had assumed that he would not have a grave.

His father had set him straight once he’d realized what the young Luck had been worried about. The thought had comforted Luck then. Now, he saw his tombstone in his dreams.

“Your time has run out.” Tick nodded sagely. “I get it, Mr. Luck. That’s veeery smart of you. I would never have thought of thaaat.” 

Luck thought about pointing out that Tick  _had_  thought of it just now, but decided it wouldn’t change anything if he did.  As for ‘smart’ - perhaps the better word would be ‘whimsical’ but Luck would be far too embarrassed to say it out loud.

“Mr. Tick,” Luck said, “if you continue to prove your worth and eventually pay off your stepfather’s debts, I will buy you a pocket watch of your own as a token of our gratitude. You have my word.”

Tick’s smile grew wider, and he straightened. “Wooow! A gift for me, Mr. Luck? You don’t have to do thaaat!”

“Don’t mention it,” Luck mumbled, looking at his own pocket watch. Two forty-seven. He would have to leave soon - he was meant to review the Family’s inventory with Nicola. And after that – he and Berga were to do a little “target practice” with a drug dealer’s automobile that he had begun parking in their territory at six. And after that –

“Mr. Luck? I think you should slow down.” 

Luck looked down at Tick, who was studiously examining one of his older pairs of scissors.

“How do you mean,” he asked, coldly.

“I know I’m not very smart or observant, but I see you eveeery day and it looks like you’re alwaaays in a hurry. I think you’re trying to do loootts of things all the time, like you think there’s never enough time to do aaall the things you need to do and waaant to do.”

The corners of Luck’s mouth tightened back, and he unconsciously leant a little away from Tick’s table.

“And?” 

Tick shrugged. “I just thoouuught you should know, Mr. Luck.” After a moment he spoke again, sounding a touch forlorn.  “Tack would have the answers.”

Luck turned away. “I have to go,” he muttered, and he turned and fled the room as fast as he could manage.

He went straight to the basement stairs in the back, and as he descended he gripped the railing so hard his skin hurt. He beelined for the office, and when he pushed the door open he found Nicola standing in the middle of the room, ledger in hand. He seemed to be talking to Luck’s older brother Keith, who sat behind his desk with his brow furrowed. Berga was absent.

Nicola looked over at the sound of the door opening, his eyebrows rising at the sight of Luck.

“Hey there, Lucko - you’re early.”

“Would you rather I be late, Mr. Cassetti?” Luck asked testily, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Nicola’s eyebrows ascended into his browline, and he shot Keith a look before snapping the ledger shut.

“No, not at all. I was talking to Keith about us taking inventory today.” Nicola shrugged. “I think we’ll start with the gunstock and ammo crates, and end with the kitchen upstairs. That sound good to you?”

“Fine, fine. Let’s get started.” 

Nicola paused, and then gave a short, awkward laugh. “You know, you don’t always have to be so concerned with punctuality and  _getting things done now_  and moving faster than you have to. Slow down a little.”

“You too, Mr. Cassetti?” Luck grimaced, and looked away. He did not  _want_  this conversation. He did not  _need_ it. He did not want to  _think_  about it, and his hands curled into fists –

“Call me Nico, would you? You’re too formal for your own good.”

Nicola looked cautiously at Keith once more (did he think that Luck wouldn’t  _notice?_ ) and said gently, “you don’t need to try so hard.”  

“That’s not what –” Luck bit the inside of his cheek. “It’s three o’clock. There are only so many hours in the day.” 

Nicola frowned. “It can wait a –”

“Please.” 

Keith shuffled his papers on the table, making the most minimal of noise. But it seemed to signal  _something_  to Nicola, and he sighed, flipping the ledger open.

“Well, if you say so. I’m sure your and Berga’s little spark show this evening could wait another half-hour or so, but…no time like the present.”

Keith chose that moment to stand, and he reached for his coat on the chair and draped it over his left arm. Luck swallowed as his brother maneuvered around the desk and toward them, stopping to put his free hand on Luck’s shoulder.

“You have more time…than you think.”

Nicola and Luck watched in silence as the Gandor don disappeared through the door. 

“All right,” said Nicola, after the door closed. “Are you  _sure_  there’s nothing you want to talk about?” 

“Yes, thank you,” Luck snapped. “I may be younger than you, Mr. Cassetti, but I certainly do not need to be coddled. Now, shall we begin?” 

When the two of them reached the room where the Gandors kept their weapon stock, Nicola locked the door behind them and sat on a weapons crate, his hands resting on his thighs. Luck’s heart sank as the older capo tossed the ledger to the side.

“Let’s talk.”

“No,” said Luck, flatly.

“It would do you good.”

“It would not.”

“Try me.”

“Mr. Cassetti, we are  _wasting time_!” Luck winced, and gritted his teeth in frustration at the slip.

Nicola gave him a knowing, despicable look. “Oh?”

Luck stared fixedly at the wooden floorboards.

Nicola shifted in his seat, the crate creaking. “I don’t want to give you the impression that I don’t value punctuality and a good work ethic. Trust me, I do. Your drive is admirable. But Luck, you do  _realize_  that it’s not a race, don’t you? You don’t have to be constantly pushing yourself. At the rate you’re going, you’ll work yourself to death.” 

He hesitated. Luck held his breath.

“…I don’t want to see you end up like your father.”

A warm chill ran up and down Luck’s spine. He did not raise his head; he refused to acknowledge whatever expression Nicola was wearing.

“There isn’t enough time,” he mumbled, before he could stop himself.

Nicola was silent.

“My father,” Luck said abruptly, raising his voice, “died far too young.  When I think of the work he left unfinished, of the books he never read, of what he could have accomplished had he lived just a week, month, or year more –”

He swallowed thickly, and reminded himself to breathe.

“For all I know, I’ll die this very evening alongside Berga. Maybe I’ll die tomorrow, or in ten, fifty, years from now.  This isn’t about my age, Mr. Cassetti. I’m not trying to ‘prove my worth’ through  _punctuality._ I have so many things I want to do, so many things I need to do that the thought of dying before I accomplish them all fills me with a repulsion I have yet to be cured of.”

 

Now, he lifted his head to study the other man’s expression. To his surprise, there was no pity in it – nor was there exasperation (nor was there condescendence, but he hadn’t expected there to be. Not from Nicola). The capo was taking him seriously - which in some ways was worse for Luck than all three combined. 

“I want no consolation,” Luck continued – before Nicola could get a word in edgewise. “I am already aware of what I  _should_  and  _shouldn’t_  be thinking, and what  _is_  and  _isn’t_  unreasonable. There is no helping it should I die tomorrow – I  _know_  this.”

 

He chuckled bitterly.

"I have no grand philosophical ambitions, Mr. Cassetti. I have no important ideas that would better the world, no unwritten literary masterpieces up my sleeve. The world will not suffer should I die before my time. And yet – and yet! I still scrabble onwards, determined to witness as much as I can, to read more than my fill, to do, do, do. Am I not greedy, Mr. Cassetti? Am I not vain? I act in the hopes of accomplishing more than is possible in one day, all the while knowing that none of my desires are meaningful. And even then, with the knowledge that I will die with things left undone.”

Luck met Nicola’s gaze, and smiled thinly.

“Everyone dies unsatisfied.”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> As noted in the summary, this was first shared on Tumblr a month ago. I also shared it on another site.
> 
> It was only written in a couple hasty hours, so forgive the poor quality.


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